Book Four: The Seine
by L'Ael-Inire
Summary: Novel-based. Jean Valjean saves Javert after he throws himself into the Seine. Very straight-edge, and made in an attempt to be as true to the characters and general style in which Les Mis was written as possible. 6 chapters minus notes and completed.
1. A Short Foreword

From the Author

This has been a project, in which:

1. I tried (I emphasize "tried") to write in the same manner as Victor Hugo and by the same stylistic choices that he did. In addition, it was written as if it had a specific place in the book--that is, immediately after the section entitled "Javert in Disarray".

2. The characters are unmodified and meant to be as close to their sources as possible, which means no slash and all the rest.

3. All pieces of writing present in this work which do not belong to me--which are few--have been isolated by page bars and/or unique formatting. I think they're quite discernable. These parts belong to Hugo and I have made use of them for the sole purpose of clarity. Do not sue me.

Critique very welcomed, if you know what you're talking about. Then again even if you don't, have at it. I'm a curious being.

* * *

**OFFICIAL AND OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER:** I do not own the source story-line or characters used in the following work. They belong to the novel _Les Misérables,_ Victor Hugo and copyrighting company.

**

* * *

**

- L'Ael


	2. 1: In which Javert is misplaced

Book Four

THE SEINE

* * *

I

_Javert in disarray_

_"...The place where Javert stood, we may recall, was where the river flows in a dangerous rapid. He looked down. There was a sound of running water, but the river itself was not to be seen. What lay below him was a void, so that he might have been standing at the edge of infinity. He stayed motionless for some minutes, staring into nothingness. Abruptly he took off his hat and laid in on the parapet. A moment later a tall, dark figure, which a passer-by might have taken for a ghost, stood upright on the parapet. It leaned forward and dropped into the darkness._

_There was a splash, and that was all."_

_

* * *

_

II

_A digression of sequence wherein Javert is misplaced_

At Number 7 of the Rue de l'Homme Armé, Valjean stood in disbelief.

As we recall, he had just put his head out the window for a breath or a glance at the street, and in doing so found that Inspector Javert was gone. Another man perhaps would readily have assumed the instance of mercy, believing Javert had let him go after all and then silently departed. Jean Valjean was tempted to accept this, but also distraught for he could not. Javert had told him he would wait, and there was no reason that he should not still be outside with his cudgel gripped securely beneath his coat, uncharacteristically lenient. Yet, as Valjean threw closed the curtains and stepped away from the window, he could feel the faint suggestion of hope rising from within.

To devote a few words to the nature of Hope: To explain her dangers, this unpredictable harlot of Paradise, who makes no promises but smiles coyly as she grasps our hand and guides us down the path of expectation. Her maiden arms weighed down by flowers collected for humankind, she is innocent and good, but unfortunate as the man who falls into having her. She wants to please and does so the only ways she is able; with ephemeral words and fancies, which may endure, but more often vanish as quickly as a winter day, resulting in the wreckage of those who took too solemnly the purred suggestions of her imagination. Jean Valjean was acquainted with Hope and had suffered from her infidelity before. She had accompanied him during his early escapes from prison, each time taking flight an hour sooner, sensing a dead end but proving too cowardly to show her face when he reached it. Her most malicious encounter had been upon his parole release, when she greeted him with smiles of warmth and whispers of all associated with true freedom. As we will recall of Valjean's welcome, we may confidently say that his hope had proven itself as intuitive as the townspeople had proven sympathetic. This, of course, excluded the Bishop of Digne, whom neither Valjean nor what hope he'd possessed could have ever predestined.

It is for this reason, that is Valjean's familiarity with his own weakness of heart, that he was swift in shutting the curtain and turning round. He concluded valiantly against his own guttural longing that it had been his old eyes playing tricks on him, and he walked briskly down the stairs and outside again so to peer around the corner and ensure himself that Javert was, in fact, waiting for him.

He was not, and the street was empty. The domineering silhouette of the inspector was scarce to be seen.

A cold sweat began to creep across Valjean's skin. It was true, then, that this man was gone. This man who he had been sure would take him to the galleys, to toil his few remaining years in corrosion. Javert had been there to bring him to his dying place, and suddenly, by some act of divine light, had vanished completely. He could scarcely move, he felt so weak with gratitude, and Hope once again began to weave her delicate fingers over the broad shoulders of Jean Valjean.

However, even in the presence of such exaltation, one maintains an appropriate amount of logical thought. It is an inescapable instinct that human kind, unlike the animals, must analyze and find reason in turns of events this profound and inexplainable. We must know more than we must, and therefore where we are superior in development and progress, we lack in skills of primitive survival. When the wolf escapes the trap that had anchored its paw, it does not pause to wonder how his freedom came to be; the wolf flees. But a human man of spirit and mind, finding himself freed from the trap on his foot, cannot resist but to examine and decide how he came about his freedom, sparing precious time before the hunter again arrives. Thus did Valjean, in his unbridled rejoice, maintain a certain amount of unease in regards to his pursuer's sudden departure. As he climbed the stairs he contemplated this phenomenon, beginning with the officer's words.

He had said 'I will wait for you here'; Of that Valjean was certain, although there had been moments in the beginning where, as he initially had doubted his eyes, he wondered if his ears had been mistaken in that account.

It must be said that had Valjean not been so overpowered by delight, he would have recalled the inspector's disposition when he left him; The placement of the brow and the tight throat he had noticed before he entered the house. But blinded by shock he had completely forgotten this strange behavior, which otherwise might have helped him to some conclusion other than mystification. All that Valjean was aware of was the policeman's promise and his contradiction, and without this detail which his memory failed to present, Valjean was baffled.

He had reached the second floor, not pausing as he had before to use the window, and presently made his way to his chamber room. He walked slowly to the bed and sat. Had anyone else seen him he would have appeared a tired, absent-minded old man. Little was evident of the extreme mental toil which was taking place.

The fact was Javert had been misplaced. The possibilities, in Valjean's mind by the way he knew his pursuer, began with distraction and then intention, yet immediately the two thoughts repelled themselves. Under what circumstances could the policeman's attentions been drawn elsewhere? Had he not got Valjean at last, and would he risk this victory by making it second priority? Would he not confirm to himself that it was in his duty against criminalization, and Valjean was predominant? Perhaps so great was his skepticism that he wanted to test Valjean's promise to remain in the Rue de l'Homme Armé. Was the accomplishment too plain for his taste? Could it be the tiger yearned more for the chase than the meat?

Or--and Valjean shuddered at the potential of the suggestion--could Javert truly be so kind and so cruel as to offer Valjean his freedom in this way; To say 'Here, it is yours. Take it' and yet not inform within which hand it is being held?

When it came that Valjean at last decided against this, it was due neither to fear nor confidence, which both in excess are prone to assumption; Javert never lied. Valjean had come about this knowledge as the Mayor of Montreil-sur-Mer. It was here as Monsieur Madeleine that he had first learned of Javert and his reputation, which consisted of the following traits; Duty, authority, justice and honesty. Honesty, here, was where Valjean was concerned. He had heard, and believed it to be true, that Javert was always honest, whether or not it was in his best interest. It was one of the heightened aspects of his character and among the foundation of his beliefs. Valjean could not fool his heart to wishing Javert's principles of dignity would suddenly change for his sake. In quiet despair, the possibility that Javert had let him free vanished.

All that remained was distraction. Something had occurred during the short moments when Valjean had been climbing the stairs that had urgently drawn Javert away from his declared post. It was not unlikely, as fighting was still going on in parts of the town and could easily migrate to where they were situated. In fact, in the back of his mind Valjean had once considered the possibility that Javert had been caught up by members of the republic as he had at the barricade and taken away. However this had seemed too unlikely and secretly favorable for Valjean to bother to rule out or fully consider, and it was swept distractedly away. However it was true that in any situation of panic or uprising, it was unfortunately customary for there to be people who aimed to take advantage of the chaos. Such had been Thénardier's undertaking when Valjean encountered him in the sewers.

So, this then was what must have happened: As Javert waited outside on the Rue de l'Homme Armé for Valjean to return, there had perhaps been the crash of a broken window from far off or the scream of someone robbed. Naturally, this would have been the more impressing matter, and it would have been comfortably within Javert's duty to investigate. This indeed seemed the most likely case. But still, regardless of the circumstances in which he might have found himself, Javert had committed himself already to putting Valjean away. It was not something he would forget or choose to forget out of inconvenience or other notions of pettiness. If he had indeed been summoned by duty elsewhere, it was doubtless that he would be returning here, as soon as he was free, to finish what he had begun. It seemed certain to Valjean that if Javert did not arrest him now he would not fail to do so in the future.

There was just the right balance of conviction and agonized wishfulness in him for Valjean to firmly believe this but take no action. Thus, Valjean decided, he would wait for his capturer to return, and in the meantime pray he would not.

He was nearly satisfied with this course of events when something occurred.

It is here that we witness one of those strange pin-pricks in the fabric of time, where one motion leads to one word, and a word leads to a future which hitherto would not have been possible. The occurrence which took place was insignificant at the moment but wildly detrimental to the flow of events. Who's to say what may have come, had what we are about to tell never taken place? Even I, dear reader, could not say, for the author of this story is a mere historian and not as omniscient as would be beneficial.

It is at that moment that a small mouse ran across the foot of Valjean. It had walked hands and feet beneath the bedding while Valjean had been in deep reflection; and after some deep reflection by the mouse itself, regarding specifically whether to stay under the bed or venture out, it now made its impulsive, and as we have mentioned, life-altering decision and escaped across the floor to the crack beneath the dresser. This small action, the running of a tiny gray-brown mouse across a room, caused Valjean to think of Cosette, who had once been so small and excited, somewhat like a mouse herself. This sudden nostalgia of his beloved child took his mind away from Javert and his mysteriousness, and he leaned off the bed carefully to stand, walking out of his room and making his way to that of Cosette.

When he reached it he did no more than to crack open the door, which groaned softly and affectionately as if to warn him she may wake. There, beneath the quilt which gently folded to the newly woman-like curves of her body, slept Cosette. A single ray of moonlight danced through the window, lighting only her white face and giving her the resemblance of a budding chrysanthemum. Valjean watched her with tenderness. After a few moments he slowly closed the door, the world a blur from the tears in his eyes.

Just after he had shut the door he froze in a pallid horror as a thought took place in his mind which he had failed yet to consider, and he was forced to recall his scarce escape with Cosette from an Parisian alleyway in what seemed like another life. It had not been merely luck that night, nor providence, although certainly both of these were just as well responsible. That night had been Javert's downfall; so was the inspector that he'd wanted to make a proper arrest. He had wasted time sending for troops in a wish to catch his prey properly and with authority. It occurred now to Valjean that perhaps that was the case tonight, why Javert had disappeared, and that he had only done so to recruit the parade which would take him to the galleys for good. It seemed quite probable, definite in fact, that the reason Javert was no where to be seen was because he had doubled back while Valjean was in the house, and was now at the police station explaining the situation, however unnecessary. After all, Valjean had told that he would put up no fight tonight. Yet he was sure Javert would be arriving soon enough with back up. When he imagined such a horrific scene, the gentlemen in uniforms cuffing him and thrusting him into a police wagon, shouting and making noise which would awake the startled, curious neighbors, it was not not his own shame or humiliation which concerned him, for Valjean had experienced this before. To him this was nought; instead he thought of Cosette.

Valjean's blood ran cold as he remembered when Cosette observed the chain-gang of prisoners come up from the boulevard of the Barrière du Maine. So confused had she been, and so fearful. And immediately Valjean's blood went from cold to boiling. Such a commotion as an arrest would surely wake her, and never, never would he allow her innocent gaze to be scorched by such an uproar. Never could Cosette know the truth, to see her old father be carted off with the brand on his chest plain to the world. Javert could have him and any humiliation he wanted, if he felt it so necessary; he would not have Cosette.

Blazing with that powerful determination born from the existence of passion and fury beside each other, Jean Valjean left the hallway and made for his desk. Without sitting down, he wrote the following with parchment and pen:

_My Dearest Daughter,_

He then stopped and began again differently, for she was not his daughter, nor did she any longer belong to him. Just as well he made note to address her with the respectful and distant 'vous'.

_Dearest Cosette,_

_I must leave you and you cannot know where. All you must know about my whereabouts is that I am well and I love you. You will not see me again._

_Your beloved Marius, whom I know of, is alive but wounded. He was brought back from the barricade and is being cared for at his Grandfather's residence in the Marias, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. Go to him, for I give you my permission to be together and my blessing._

_All my savings now belong entirely to you and to him. You are to marry him as you wish and use the money, which is honest, to build your new life._

_Think of me fondly but seldom._

He signed it simply:

_ Ultime Fauchlevent_

He folded the sheet of parchment and addressed it to Cosette, quickly descending to the bottom floor once more and awaking the startled porter. Before he could be distracted by his hideous appearance, Valjean handed him a generous tip, which he had quickly taken from his desk as he had no money on him, and the letter with directions to immediately give it to Cosette in the morning. He then went out.

He swiftly observed the roads. He took the one he knew to be the shortest distance to the police station so to ensure he would intersect the path of Javert's men lest they already be on their way. Before long he was short of being numb in his damp and filthy clothes. He huddled within the layers of grime but walked no the more quickly, savoring his last steady breaths as a free man.

* * *


	3. 2: The tall, dark figure of a ghost

* * *

III

_The tall, dark figure of a ghost_

Valjean was both completely frozen and perplexed when he reached the police station at the corner of the Place du Châtelet. He had run into neither Javert nor any others. Presently he entered the police building, which was lighted by its single lamp. The barred door closed behind him and with it came a rush of warm air from the lit furnace. There were few others besides himself. Valjean turned to the duty sergeant, who was watching him expectantly. He said:

'Has there been a call for an arrest at all tonight?'

'Of course. There's been a revolt.'

'Has there been a large call for any one arrest?'

'Somewhat large.'

'Was this quite recently?'

'There have been several, and yes, rather recently.'

'Just this evening?'

'It's past midnight!'

'Within the past hour, then?'

'No, I suppose not.'

'You're certain?'

The sergeant looked at him irritatedly.

'Who are you, Monsieur?'

Valjean said nothing. He shook his head.

'Nobody. I am no one. I apologize.'

The sergeant was satisfied and looked away impassively. Valjean left the building and began to slowly wander away from the lighted corner. It is natural, especially in the heightened state of paranoia Valjean was in, for a man such as he to be drawn towards the darker spaces of the street. In shadow, he crossed, almost drifted, away from the buildings and towards the place where the road ended and the drop-off to the Seine began. Confused and distracted by the events that had taken place, which were so contradictory to those he had predicted, Valjean glanced up in time to see a shadowed figure standing at the edge of the parapet. He recognized Javert, whom he had indeed grown skilled at recognizing in situations where recognition was near impossible, and halted. The ghost of the inspector made no movement, as he was facing the other way and could not see Valjean. Suddenly he removed his hat and climbed hand and foot onto the parapet.

As is the ironic nature of surprise that it paralyzes us in moments of immediacy and compels us to action only once it is too late, Valjean could only stare in white shock as he saw the immeasurable figure of Javert stand upon the wall of the Seine with the air of the greatest calm. An infinity seemed to pass where neither the man on the parapet nor the horrified bystander moved at all. Then, gracefully, Javert dropped off the edge.

There was a distant splash, and it is here that any recognition on our part of the proceedings henceforth vanish.

It was a moment after the plunge that Valjean dashed forward to where the policeman had previously stood. He gripped the edge of the wall, staring over. The man before him had disappeared completely. All that was seen now was darkness, and all that was heard were the Seine's rumbling, tumultuous waves as they writhed beyond view.

A multitude of feelings washed over Jean Valjean in the silent moments he looked beyond the parapet.

What he had just witnessed was the final determination of his freedom. Without any obligations or guilt, he had just received divine permission to live out his remaining time in both certainty and security. He could be a father to Cosette still. He could live in confidence, without the constant dread of discovery, and particularly without the fear of Javert. At last! Javert was gone; Valjean was free!

Jean Valjean remained motionless, his expression unreadable. Abruptly he began to run, following the parapet and the flow of the river until gradually its furious pace slowed in compare. What he searched was one of those random point of shallowness resulting from uneven dirt beneath the water. When it came that Valjean's sweat had begun to freeze, he spotted a string of shore and climbed upon the parapet, dropping down into the short water with a splash. Then he climbed to the measure of bank and balanced, staring into the water, scrutinizing its twisting and untraceable form. There had been a street lamp at the corner, and this served as enough light to make out the masses of the various submerged rock formations throughout the river. Valjean was focused in on one of these formations with intensity when what appeared to be a piece of fabric was washed down and caught against it. It was the apparently lifeless body of Javert.

An instant passed where Valjean merely watched as the figure was tugged impatiently by the water. Then with speed, Valjean removed his shoes and jacket and began to wade.

Although the tides were shallower and therefore calmer than they had been at the Place du Châtelet, they still whipped about Valjean's limbs and tried to carry him off. Gripping what he could with his feet until it became too deep, then swimming as best he could from rock to rock, Valjean made his way to the center of the river. He reached Javert, grasping his arm just as he was about to be carried away by the bustling stream once again. Using all the strength of his years in labour, Valjean clutched the body beneath one arm and journeyed back, time after time nearly falling beneath the surface. With as much difficulty as he had carried Marius through the sewer, Valjean dragged himself and his burden to the shoreline. Here he lay Javert down and fainted.

***

He awoke moments later, recalling where he was. The disheveled body of Javert lay several feet beside him. He crawled over to it and sat, gazing at it blankly. With what muscle power he still possessed, he presently worked the man into an upright position and henceforth began to strike a flat palm against his back repeatedly. He did this for several minutes, then seeing it was having no effect he exhaustedly laid the limp form back on the mud and took to gazing at it again darkly. The night was silent besides the flickering water behind them. The soft suggestion of light on the drowned man's face indicated that it was nearly dawn.

With a sudden gag, which Valjean momentarily thought had come from somewhere other than Javert, the other man convulsed, water erupting from his throat in gushes. Javert struggled onto his side, vomiting up the Seine. Once he could breathe air he took rest with his body half risen on the muddy shore. After being very still for some time, he looked up and met the startled face of Jean Valjean. At first Javert seemed not to see him. Then he muttered in a raw voice:

'Oui, bien sur. C'est vous.'_ ('_Yes, of course. It's you.')

* * *


	4. 3: To drown is not to die

* * *

IV

_To drown is not to die_

Javert coughed, leaning forward until he was in a completely upright position. Valjean, who had backed away when startled by the man's sudden reanimation, sat upon the risen earth where the shore met the parapet. Javert stayed motionless for a moment, water dripping off his clothes and hair, and analyzed his surroundings. Diverting his attention he began patting his coat, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pistol. He exchanged this to his other hand so to reach in again and retrieve a pair of handcuffs; He tossed the two tools indifferently into the mud. He felt the other pocket and withdrew a small square box of snuff, which was drenched and clearly ruined. 'Damn,' he said. He threw it against the mud with the cuffs and pistol. The Seine crept up quietly and washed them away. Javert touched his hand to his head and looked round again. 'Where's my hat?' he muttered. Valjean spoke:

'On the parapet.'

Javert turned sharply to him, and Valjean felt remorse for having made himself noticed. Javert continued to look at him for a minute then mumbled:

'Ah, yes.'

Gingerly he got to his feet. Valjean followed lead, never looking away from Javert, whom he was regarding as carefully as a deer does a human it meets in the woods. They stood, hesitating as the icy wind blew against their drenched clothing. Javert was looking down, his chin tucked deep into his collar. Thusly he began to walk, quite as stiffly from frostbite as he had when being led to his supposed death at the barricade. Valjean followed close behind, walking along the parapet until they reached a point where the wall had partially either crumbled or been knocked apart by an escaping convict. A path led up from the banks to the street. They made their way up then headed back the way they'd come.

No words had been spoken when they reached the corner by the police station. Javert picked up his hat but did not put it on; rather he held it in both his hands and scowled at it. He turned his head to glance at the river, then, changing his mind it seemed, looked back and focused intently in on Jean Valjean.

'How is it you came to find me?' he inquired.

Valjean, speechlessly, shook his head. Javert nodded curtly as if to say that sufficed and faced away. At last Valjean asked:

'Are you going to arrest me?'

Javert replied by turning his chin over his shoulder.

'No.' He made movement to leave when Valjean spoke once more.

'Wait.'

'What is it?' Javert snapped, although his voice was too tired to uphold its usual authority.

'Why did you do that?'

There was no question as to what was being referred. Javert did not move or speak. Then slowly he said:

'I must not arrest you.'

Valjean could only stare in incomprehension, for he could see no reason why the inspector should feel this way.

'But you were going to.'

'Yes.'

'And now you're not?'

'No.'

Valjean was mystified, but part of him continued to examine. He was forced to consider certain possibilities regarding events that had past. He seriously wondered whether human guilt, for Javert, could exist. Valjean carefully tested the waters, speaking quietly after the impressive silence:

'You owe me nothing, Javert.'

Javert barked a single, mirthless laugh.

'Less than that even, I'm sure.'

'I don't understand you.'

However Javert had returned to gazing distantly towards the ground. When he spoke his voice was nearly unrecognizable it was so composed.

'Valjean you are free. Now go.'

Tension stretched through Jean Valjean as the urge to flee nearly overwhelmed him. Then, observing the locked gaze between Javert and the river, he felt himself quite rooted to where he stood. As the final bit of reserved hope he had for his freedom was sacrificed, and was replaced by an unexpected sense of purpose, Valjean replied:

'No.'

'Clear out,' repeated Javert.

'No.'

Javert turned to him and took him by the shoulder so to push him away, but Valjean twisted out of the man's grip.

'Look here,' he began. All ties to himself as the inspector's inferior had thusly vanished, the same way all sentiments of being his superior had dissipated long ago. Where Valjean stood now was on a beam of equality. For the first time his in life he was on the same plane as the man before him, whom it appeared now was mortal after all. 'Look here,' he said, 'I don't understand why you do what you do, Javert. But I'll be damned if I'll watch you throw yourself into that river again.'

Javert's face turned white, perhaps from rage or some other undefinable emotion. They had both turned prone to sudden tremors because of the extreme cold, so this may have been a factor as well.

'I'm sorry for releasing you at the barricade if this is what it's brought you to,' Valjean said simply. 'But you did not deserve a death as such then; nor do you now.'

Abruptly Javert came very close to Valjean's face, not touching him yet giving Valjean the sensation of being held in the grip of death. Calm and menacingly he growled:

'How could you know what a man deserves? You, a thief, and yet not. You who've been with the scum of the earth and yet somehow, by some divine prank, still also with the saints; You! A man who frees his enemy in a time of revolt, who rescued that boy at the barricade and dragged him through hell beneath the streets, and brought him to his grandfather's, or his godfather's or father's or whomever it was we visited, it doesn't matter! You come to me now, in your obscure martyrdom, to drag me away from whom other than myself? Only you would take on such an assault! You think you know what I deserve--Ha! What a dichotomy you are, if I ever saw one. What an insufferable... If all the demons of Hell arrived! _Nom d'un chien! _To think this man believes himself when he says I don't deserve what I deserve... As if he knew anything at all of justice or what's fair. And you will save me once more if I jump into this water, monsieur? Is that what you dare proclaim? Of all the men. For the lamb to save the lion. You could be drowned yourself and still you would not hesitate to jump in after me--Don't shake your head, I can see by your clothes that's what happened. I'm not stupid, you know--you didn't find me already washed up on the banks; You dived in I see, you fool--And you'll do it again to interfere now when I try to go under.' And thus his voice became very melancholic. He spoke to himself. 'Yet these are the very reasons.'

And Jean Valjean, who had witnessed no show of humanity such as this in the inspector ever before, was shocked to discover that he pitied the man. Methodically Javert moved along the wall away from Valjean. Valjean followed, and Javert turned around to face him.

'Leave me be, Valjean. It is none of your concern,' he commanded lazily.

'It is,' Valjean sadly replied.

'Well it shouldn't be. You should try to make it so.'

'I cannot.'

'I have faith in you,' Javert sneered.

'I will not.'

'I'm warning you, Valjean.'

Valjean quickly shook his head.

'You cannot threaten me, Javert. You've thrown away your weapons, and we both know I'm the stronger man.'

Javert eyed Jean Valjean with severe dislike.

'I do wish you would leave me be,' he complained.

'I apologize.'

'Could you not find some other substitutional good deed to fill your time?'

'I'm afraid not.'

'I find I grow tired by your charity. It's excessive; I don't want it.'

Valjean did not reply. Then he quietly said:

'Arrest me, Javert. Think me nothing but an old man who's only done an ounce of good in his life. If it will help you, arrest me.' Valjean held out his wrists to Javert, forgetting the policeman had discarded his handcuffs. Nevertheless Javert jerked his hands back as if from fire. He gazed at Valjean with either immense hatred or immense fear.

'Why do you ask this of me?' he snarled.

'I am old and my time with this is done. And I'll die soon.'

'Better to die in your own bed.'

'It makes no difference. Take me to the police station.'

Javert gave a pained expression.

'I told you that you are free.'

'It's cold and nearly morning anyway. It's the nearest building.'

'Go home.'

'I'll freeze before I get there.'

'Call yourself a fiacre.'

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a handful of coins, taking Valjean by the arm and dropping the money into his palm. Valjean's expression became darker.

'It confounds me, Inspector, how the mercy you've failed to show others in the past you do indeed lack, even for yourself.'

Javert murmured, 'Do not address me as such, monsieur,' and took hold of the parapet, revealing that his hands trembled. The severe cold, however, had retreated somewhat since the dawn grew lighter. He stood and looked out at the Seine.

* * *


	5. 4: Inconceivable

V

_Inconceivable_

Valjean did not move from his spot. He feared to leave lest Javert try to take his life again, yet he knew not what to say to ensure otherwise. Silence took the place of their fruitless arguing for quite a long while. So deep was this solitude that Javert once looked back and, seeing that Valjean had not left, sighed, 'Well, he's still there.'

During the silence Valjean reflected on the inspector's change of behavior. He had never considered possible Javert to be so profoundly disturbed, yet found himself helpless in his attempts to console or otherwise influence the man's impressions. We must recall that Valjean knew only of what he could gather, which was that Javert was painfully beside himself; he had no awareness of the extremity of inner turmoil which haunted the policeman. He had therefore assumed the not entirely incorrect but incomplete hypothesis which proved most evident; that Javert felt he owed some favor to Valjean but was distraught in having to neglect his duty by what this would entitle; that is, Valjean's release. It was for this reason that Valjean so unusually persisted on his own arrest. Pre-existing accessions to this likely fate he had already made. But even more so now was he certain of it, for when he had seen Javert jump from the parapet, a kind of responsibility took hold of him. It was that same responsibility indigenous to Jean Valjean which constantly confronted him in situations such as the present. Most similar to how it confronted him now was when Valjean had once struggled with the prospect of revealing his identity, for the sake no less of a single man named Champmathieu; a stranger. Yet providence had won then, just as it won now, and Valjean was determined not to leave his place overseeing Javert until the conflict he had obviously sparked was resolved. As it were, by the nature of Javert in the way Valjean knew it, the soonest resolution would most easily come in Valjean's eventual arrest; it was Valjean's belief that so long as he accurately impressed upon Javert his freedom of obligation, the troubled man would soon abandon his scruples. Valjean was aware of the inspector's over-indulgence of self-discipline. He had witnessed this first-hand before the trial of Champmathieu, when Javert had insisted on his own dismissal; Jean Valjean would wait by the Seine and deny Javert this act of self-destructive the same way he had then. It must be done, and Valjean knew it well, for he had grown accustomed to finding the path of good in a thicket of temptation.

As for Javert, he was presently undergoing more changes. His dismantling had come to a second trial, and in the absolute depths of his uncertainty there had occurred a kind of mentality almost resembling openness.

It is often this way, when we are first thrust into the palls of depression or loss, that we should fight to hold onto what we believed in. We are so utterly baffled by the unreality of our previous ideas that our denial quickly turns to a manic demur. There, on that brink of mourning, is where drastic measures are taken. Afterwards, the spirit is deflated; the mind is dead; the heart is numb. All these are aspects of man which take time to re-evolve after a collapse. It is in this rare amount of time, where what we knew is gone, and our predilection for it has been, as a thought of last resort, sacrificed, that new ideas and beliefs most easily reach us. It is the same nature that a vine which is torn just partially from a wall will continue to cling as much as it can. Meanwhile, a vine that has been completely ripped apart from its host has two possible options; that is to die, or to grow to something new.

Javert now stood stonily, staring down into what would have made a lovely grave. He could feel Valjean behind him, and his stress aggrandized as, during the deepest plunge of his dejection, the man to whom he already owed his life once stood at his back, a guardian angel. Javert's shame deepened and he soon felt sick with it. He leaned upon the parapet more deeply.

What was currently struggling within Javert was contemplation of Valjean's unexpected persistence. His presence at all that night, of course, had been unexpected and perfectly detrimental to Javert's intentions. He refused to think on the fact that he had been saved by this one particular man so frequently, and was continuing to be saved so long as he wasn't left to his own fancies. Valjean was saving his life over and over, and Javert hated him for it.

Why should Valjean remain? What point was there? What motivation did he have, and what benefit could Valjean possibly think he would gain by all this? Javert could have asked these things but might've been terrified to hear the replies. The truth was he became ill in both stomach and heart whenever the thought returned to him of what Valjean was doing. The extreme act of kindness, ignorant and chance though it was, both irritated and--God help him!--touched Javert. Reflection on these feelings before had been painful, but now it was wholly excruciating. How terrible to be reached in this way! To yield to hypocrisy and sink beneath one's own standards! Justice, not kindness, had always served Javert. Kindness was unnecessary and its use in matters where justice should be the prevailing means repulsed him. Yet Javert could no longer deny or resist; He could feel himself being handled, formed and molded like clay, in mysterious ways. He felt tormented and broken, disgusted with himself. And yet, he gradually found himself, also, becoming inadvertently submissive to it; with death denied from him, this perverse form of acceptance, the kind resulting from severe torture resulting in apathy, was the only thing keeping him from tipping into the fathoms of madness. For simultaneously he felt torn from his own foundations and also to be approaching something new and unknown. This portion of mental transition, which had not yet been reached at the time Javert decided to take his life, was now starting.

Since the incident at the barricade, life had been like a dark corridor for Javert; The room in which he had for so long resided was behind him now, and locked steadfastly; ahead of him was a door he had already tried, a black one in front of which Jean Valjean now stood with his arms folded restrictively. Yet further along the hallway was a glint of light which had hitherto gone unnoticed; It shone from beneath a new door, and it was towards this opening that Javert felt himself unintentionally drifting.

In regards to certainty, nothing more remained; The sky was down, the earth was water, humans were beasts and convicts were sadistic angels. However, this epic loss, which had since peaked to complete absence, had taken its toll on Javert in a peculiar way. Certainty was the one thing he had taken for granted throughout his life. With it had gone all sense of his own purpose. Initially this had led to self-loathing, but as in all things of the self there had remained an aspect of egotism. Now, in its completeness, Javert's loss of certainty was doing something else to the unfortunate man; in his abusive dispassion, Javert had been humbled. As if to fill him so that his head may burst, also present was a currently more resounding trait marked by complete disorientation. This was the difference between the period before his swim and now; His disorientation diluted his uncertainty, that it was no longer so intensified that Javert may think to fling himself over the parapet when next Valjean should blink or turn his head. Javert had fallen into the abyss, that dark tunnel of purposelessness, and somehow come out the other side. It is impossible to return to the world from this unchanged.

As to all this the inspector was profoundly unaware. Javert did not understand the things that were happening within him; he only felt them, saw them in his behavior, and feared them as one fears the unknown. In an attempt to explain them to himself, he was unconsciously bonding himself to them. And when he searched for their meaning, he arrived at Jean Valjean.

It was so simple and yet Javert had failed to ever recognize such selflessness in the world. He had already failed himself: He had yielded to a criminal; he had turned human and succumbed to reproach; he had been kind and shown mercy where, by the law, mercy was not due. He had already determined that the law may well be null-and-void, that it itself was susceptible to reproach, and this had been enough to define his own inadequacy for having served it. And yet, was not being enough in his own eyes not the worst possible crime? Javert identified himself with his devotion to the law, but was there even more by which one could fail?

It was a concept which had never before occurred to the confident inspector, and as it was, Javert felt severely unsettled.

In this obtrusive pattern of events, the thought of God again entered his mind. In this repeated instance, however, it posed no threat. The appeal was no greater, to be certain, but Javert was neither intimidated nor moved by it. He felt little towards the Divine presence itself, which he was unaccustomed to, but great respect towards the ideals emanating from it. These were ideals which he knew but never considered, and were those presently reflecting off Jean Valjean. Without his realizing it, Javert's respect for Valjean had reached its crest. He had addressed him as both 'vous' and 'monsieur'. He could never again look into the eyes of the man and see anything other than a saint; the image of the convict had drowned with him in the river. And these ideals Valjean held before him like precious stones were something more than kindness, as the inspector had marked them off before. Javert knew not what to name them. He had witnessed the contrast between kindness and justice his entire career, and recognized those foolish souls who relied on it and those who dispensed it like sous to the poor. ('Mercy' they called it, but acts that are just do not want for mercy; Justice is just, and the law is just, and therefore mercy is overkill; this Javert had believed, and now he had been thoroughly shot down by the obscene righteousness of a declared criminal.) Yet Valjean seemed to be neither. There was a significance in his kindness Javert recognized but could not place. It might have been mercy, but it seemed based less on that frivolous ere of sentiment than some higher and mysterious factor. It was disorganized and impulsive, and although Javert couldn't agree with some of its former interposition, he felt instinctively that it was higher than its worldly imitations. This kindness was the basis of ideals Javert was swiftly becoming acquainted with, and he felt like a learning child. Never before had he doubted his own knowledge. Now, however, it was quite apparent that he was not infallible; the man standing so near to him was more knowledgeable than Javert had ever been, and he, Javert, for assuming as much of himself for so long, was an ass. For this kindness was contrary to everything he stood for, and he felt in agreement with it; this was significantly true, for this unexpected consensus on his part was one of the deepest sources of his grief.

With this thought, abruptly thundering down once more the impressing matter of his guilt, which was terrible. Regardless of his own interests, Javert knew the law, and that he had compromised it. He could not take Valjean to prison--this he had determined long ago--and thusly, possible analyzation of his guilt as anything other than distinct and treacherous was out of the question. He, Javert, knew his treatment to others was harsh, and he by no means desired to be treated any differently. He had slipped-up, was guilty of a major infraction of multiple genre, and he must be punished. This he had known.

Yet, with a start of disappointment, Javert realized that punishment had not been his intention when he first attempted to drown himself. Certainly he considered death to be in general a respectable punishment; but in this case, death had also been an exit. Javert had wanted escape from his dilemmas, had sought retreat from his guilt of the current predicament, and from his obligations, both official and personal. Therefore death, in his case, was _not_ punishment.

So then, what was more punishment than dying? In the present, that was living. To live and and to know he had been so mistaken about everything; to live and try to endure his own incorrectness, should he some way find the means to understand it. The thought made him physically shudder. Yes; living, certainly, was the more challenging road of the two.

Still, though the bloom had been cut, the roots still grew; Javert's dedication to his foundations--those of law, duty, order--had not been displaced, only lost acuteness. Javert was no longer pierced and bound by them; they had dulled, and he had become untangled. However his mentality towards them remained true. He could not abandon the law, for though it was ceaselessly flawed it remained his liability. In regards to resignation, he saw that to be fit now only for a coward; he could not turn a blind eye from the law now and pretend he had never been a part of it when, in fact, he had aided with such devotion to its malpractice.

But what then of himself? How to correctly endow his determined punishment, to live on despite his shame and guilt, and yet continue his work? Because his work was it was based off a structure susceptible to mistake, and was therefore itself susceptible to mistake as well. In effect, it became the very cause of this guilt and shame. And this introduced yet another conundrum; Javert must not continue his work because it was bad, and yet he must should he choose to live. He must live should he choose to be fair, and must be fair to be good. And to all this Javert's appetite for the Seine fully re-emerged and he longed to be done with. For it seemed there was no way to go on living without committing more sins and making worse that which was already awful. Unless...

Here, Javert's own thoughts became so unfamiliar to him he felt himself in some other void entirely.

All was utterly hopeless, unless there were a way to correct this structure; or, if not correct the structure itself, serve it in a way that was correct. But what defined correctness?; presently that was all which Javert had discovered, that which Valjean resembled to him and which he was incapable of comprehending. But was comprehension necessary for employment, or could Javert disregard his ignorance of this and somehow still employ? As long as it was fitting, the commitment for Javert to the law was permanent; But was it alterable? Could it be possible for one to be both just and, by this tranquilized characterization he had formed of the trait, merciful. Was that in fact what this was? No, not quite. It was a measure of humanity, a shadow of the conscience. It, in one singular thoughtless term, was good. Justice was fair; it was equality, it was blind and righteous and it was not at all bad. But neither was it expressly good. It did not aim for goodness, and therefore did not always result in goodness. This matter had seemed superfluous and idealistic inanity to Javert before. But now, as an eye-witness to the travesties conceivable when one attempts justice without consideration of goodness, it became became a tangible, logical issue. For it seemed that the only way to strive for true justice was to strive for goodness as well.

So where did he stand? Javert was unsure. Could a new, unthinkable task in this collaboration be birthed, and would it be worthy of Javert's penalty? What kind of monstrosity an undertaking would this be; and--more pressing a matter--could Javert endure it? For he easily knew what he demanded of others and what he demanded of the law, just as he easily knew what the law had always demanded of him. But what Javert now faced was the inconceivable endeavor which he had come to demand of himself.

And presently, Valjean looked up as the thoroughly irritated detective heaved a great sigh.


	6. 5: Sometimes the sun may rise twice

* * *

VI

_Sometimes the sun may rise twice_

At last, dawn became morning, and orange-tinted rays of light touched the river. When the day's first worker passed nearby, and the sound of wagon wheels on cobblestones rang in the air, Javert, who had not moved the whole night, silently turned away from the parapet and began walking towards the street. Valjean watched him curiously and shortly followed. He had thought they were heading towards the police station, but presently Javert paused and turned down a different street to summon a fiacre which had been passing. He said to the driver:

'Number 7, Rue de l'Homme Armé.'

'Of course, Monsieur,' the driver said, not bothering to notice the appearance of the two gentlemen, which was, although improved as they were somewhat dry and Valjean was now completely clean of the sewer, still wretched. Valjean entered the vehicle only once Javert had entered first. They sat opposite of each other. Javert, as was custom, had his chin snugly resting on his high collar. Both men's faces were ragged and exhausted, with deep circles beneath their eyes and their hair astray. Javert began buttoning his wrist cuffs. After some reflection he put his hat on, the sole article of his clothing completely undamaged and dry. Valjean only sat and watched him, this man of hidden agenda.

***

The fiacre pulled up at the corner of the Rue de l'Homme Armé, stopping early for we'll recall the road did not allow enough space for it to pass through. Outside the horses whinnied impatiently. Valjean did not venture out but watched Javert, who looked through the window and said:

'This is your stop.'

'What are you going to do?' Valjean asked him.

'How do you mean?'

Valjean slightly moved his head, a motion of warning which seemed to say, 'I know better.'

Javert's expression was composed and he regarded the man across from him with a cool indifference. Beside his worn appearance, there was no tell in his behavior that anything had taken place the night before. He looked through the window again.

'I'll be getting out of these vile clothes, to start. I should think you'd be eager to do the same.'

He opened the fiacre door. Still Valjean did not budge. Javert then reached into his coat.

'Here; This does not belong to me.' He handed Valjean a wallet, which was recognizably Marius' as it still contained the note requesting the finder of his body to take him to his grandfather's house. 'It's pitifully empty," Javert said, 'but I suppose he might like it returned anyway.'

Valjean closed the wallet and had a thought. He watched Javert and held it back.

'You return it,' he said with meaning. Javert did not move, and had someone been at the right angle they would have witnessed him curl his fingers ever so slightly. Then he reached out and took the wallet back. Javert reread the address to himself in a murmur.

'Gillenormand, 6 Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire.' He folded the wallet, briskly placing it inside his coat. 'Very well.'

Valjean finally got out. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the money Javert had given him earlier, but did not return it. Javert watched expressionlessly as Jean Valjean approached the driver and handed him the money, which would have more than sufficed for the short trip.

'Return this man to the police station right away and no where else. Ensure he makes it inside.'

'Yes, Monsieur,' promised the driver. He gave a sideways glance back through the window at Javert, possibly wondering why the man should need special instructions. Javert smirked.

Valjean came back and made to close the door. He would have liked to return the inspector to his home, but was ignorant to where this was and had been forced to make due with the closest second. The policeman was a sight, but after that evening's incidents at the barricade this should be unsurprising for a man of his occupation.

Javert glanced at Valjean when he hesitated in closing the door. Valjean was studying him deeply, and Javert became clearly uncomfortable, quite unusual for him. Finally Valjean spoke.

'I expect to see you again,' he said. His expression was still intent upon Javert, and there was a hint of thoughtfulness or sadness, not quite readable, in the words. Javert grimaced unintentionally, then relaxed and reached for the door himself.

'We'll see,' he said shortly, shutting the door to the fiacre and rapping on the front window to indicate to the driver he should go. As the fiacre departed and made its way down the Rue de l'Homme Armé, Jean Valjean watched and felt with shameful defeat that he had not done much at all to aid the gentleman inside.

* * *


	7. 6: Epilogue

Book 5

GRANDSON AND GRANDFATHER

* * *

V

_How to safeguard your money_

_"...For the rest, Valjean knew he had no more to fear regarding Javert."_

This was due to a recent incident, before the time Cosette could visit Marius herself and Valjean had been taking trips to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. Jean Valjean had been on his way back from of these daily visitations and had chosen a path through the Luxembourg for a change of pace. He had been preoccupied with the emptiness his arm felt without Cosette clinging to it when further ahead he suddenly saw Javert. The man looked much different from the last time Valjean had seen him, for he was understandably clean and dry, and it appeared he was now on patrol and had indeed gone back to his regular police work. Instinctively Valjean stopped walking, as Javert and he were on the same path and approaching one another. Yet less than ten feet away Javert had still made no indication that he recognized the other gentleman. Then, as he passed by, he unfamiliarly nodded to Valjean as he had to any other stranger that day, briskly touching the brim of his hat. At the last moment he caught eyes with Valjean, but then immediately looked away. It had been an instantaneous interaction of spirits.

Valjean turned to watch him after he had gone by. Javert continued on his patrol, hands folded loosely behind his back, and momentarily Valjean returned to his walk so to go home and have some supper.

* * *


End file.
